Outside the Principal's Office
by smiley face 1996
Summary: Bella's smart mouth and sarcasm frequently get her into trouble with her teachers. What happens when she meets a new boy outside the principals office? And what is the secret her father is hiding? Please read and review!
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Don't own Twilight. **

**Chapter One**

Once upon a time…

How does anyone begin a story like that? I mean, it's just super vague, isn't it? It doesn't even make sense. Why is it so popular to start a tale with the phrase 'once upon a time'?

Come to think about it, how can anybody take a novel seriously that starts with something like that? How? And why, why on earth world they make us write a paper on that novel? It's got to be some kind of joke, hasn't it? Talk about teachers' warped sense of humour.

Maybe I should write a letter to the education minister, requesting that they look into the very urgent issue of the subject matter of essays…

"Bella!" I jump, wondering who has interrupted my train of thoughts. The teacher.

Ah, that explains it. See, the teacher, Mrs Collins, and I have never really got along. I mean, it's not like I did anything to cause her hatred of me, but as soon as she set eyes on yours truly, Mrs Collins seemed to have it in for me. I try not to provoke her, but when she starts a confrontation I can't help but fight back. I don't do it on purpose, it's just this natural reaction that I have.

"Bella!" she repeated. Yes miss, I heard you the first time, I think to myself.

"Bella, how much work have you done?" I glance down at my desk, my eyes taking in the, um, incomplete essay. But hey, nobody else had done much more! I shuffle uncomfortably in my chair, playing with my pencil and trying to think up a plausible excuse. Have I already used the 'I'm sorry miss, but I have repetitive strain injury in my thumb and therefore cannot write because I am incapable of gripping a pencil' one? Yes, I have. Damn.

Mrs Collins taps her foot impatiently. It's really irritating, people tapping their feet. Couldn't they just chew their knuckles or bite their nails – something that requires little effort and no noise? And perhaps they could forget to wash their hands as well, resulting in them contracting some dreadful disease that renders them bedridden and definitely not fit enough to continue with their job of torturing us poor teenagers.

But teachers don't do that. They just tap their feet, and say, just like mine is doing now, "I'm waiting, Bella."

"Um, well miss –"

"I'm married Bella, I'm a missus," she cut me off. "You need to learn your manners. Don't you understand that it is rude to address someone as just 'miss'?" I sigh theatrically.

"Well I can't just call you missus, can I miss? 'Cause that's impolite and you'll tell me off. Just like you tell me of for calling you miss. I just can't get it right, can I?"

Mrs Collins' eyes seem to bulge out of her head. Seriously, I didn't say anything that bad! She glares at me. "You do realize that, Bella, that it is saying disrespectful things like that can lead to detentions? Because if you carry on the way you are going, young lady, that is exactly how you will be spending this evening. Is that what you want?"

Well, there is only one answer to that.

"Of course miss," I reply. "Why, there is nothing I like better than a good detention. It's not like either of us have a life outside school anyway, so we might as well waste our time doing something exceedingly boring and pointless rather than enjoying ourselves and participating in something constructive! In fact, if you give me a detention I shall be eternally grateful and there is a possibility I could even buy you a Christmas present – the only one you will be getting, I might add." I pause and make a show of thinking hard. "On second thoughts," I say, dropping the sarcasm. "I'll give it a miss, thanks."

The class has stopped to listen, looking up from their papers to watch the drama. One of the stuck up clever people is looking at me disdainfully and muttering to her friend about 'unruly children disrupting the class, blah, blah, blah'. I didn't exactly ask her to come and watch. There is no sign above my head saying 'spectators are welcome to watch Bella Swan be humiliated in front of her peers by her cruel teacher' is there? No. So they have no right to mutter.

The teacher in question is turning bright red – not the most attractive sight, but then again, maybe now wouldn't be the most opportune moment to point it out. Finally she managed to get out her words.

"Principle's. Office. Now. Go."

Honestly, what kind of English teacher can't construct a proper sentence? Kind of defeats the point. How on earth did she get her qualification? What kind of incompetent person would allow a woman that obviously detests kids to become a teacher?

I suppose that that is irrelevant now, though. I pick up my bag and stuff my things into it, slinging it over my shoulder in what I hope is a nonchalant and cool manner. After saluting the class, I head for the door, leaving Mrs Collins standing by my desk fuming. I allow myself a congratulatory smile as I head down the corridor.

My school, Oliver Tomas comprehensive, is not particularly big, for a high school, but it's still reasonably large. When I first came here – just over four years ago – I managed to get lost a total number of fifteen times before I worked out the way around. It started off really small, just a handful of classrooms clustered together in the middle of nowhere, but over the years it has grown; passages, storerooms, a library and a hall, built whenever the management came into some money, have made it into a labyrinth.

I wouldn't be surprised if students started walking around with sat navs to guide them to their lessons.

I round the final corner and arrive at the principles door. There are two other people waiting to go in, one of which I know – Jacob.

"Hey Jake," I grin. "You beat me! I was so sure that I would be the first to end up here this week."

Jacob Black is the year below me and generally we wouldn't have been friends, but due to the ability we both share of ending up in front of Mr Johnson's office regularly, our acquaintance grew to friendship. A Native American boy with black hair, dark skin and entirely too much height. In my personal opinion, people that tall shouldn't be allowed – it's depressing for the rest of us.

He had been facing the other way when I spoke, and turned at the sound of my voice.

"So did I," he agrees amicably. "I just couldn't resist pocking a bit of fun out of Mr Holland, know what I mean?"

"No Jake," I say. "I don't. It's not me picking on teachers; it's the teachers that pick on me."

He laughs. "What I use is called pre-emptive attack," he counters. "I make the first move so that they can't start on me."

I give him a sceptical look. "Basically, you're a trouble maker, Jake. I pity your poor father. Respectable gentlemen shouldn't have to put up with people like you."

"Look who's talking," he retorts. "At least my dad isn't a policeman. Do you tell him about your detentions before or after he puts his gun away?"

"Touché," I concede. "Good point."

"I know," he replies smugly.

"Arrogant bastard," I mutter.

"What was that?"

"Nothing!"

At that exact moment a fight breaks out in the nearest classroom and the space is filled with shouts, screams and the clash of chair against chair. At least, I can only assume it's a fight, because I can't imagine a history teacher being interesting enough to get her students to do a re-enactment of the battle of Hastings. Or maybe the class are getting some personal experience on the murder of Julius Caesar – they play the unsatisfied politicians and the teacher plays the general that gets stabbed in the back multiple… Hm, not a bad idea.

Mr Johnson strides out of his office glowering around, until his gaze comes to rest on me.

"Hey, hey, hey!" I hold my hands in the air. "No looking at me! I'm innocent! I've done nothing!"

He narrows his eyes. "What is all this noise?"

Wordlessly, Jake points to the source and our dear principle swings around to go sort it out. We catch a few words like, "…disappointed of you … disgraces to the school… hope you are thoroughly ashamed of yourselves… Now behave properly!"

Then he's back, looming over the three of us, his face dark as a thundercloud.

"And what have you two done now?" he growls at Jake and me, ignoring the other boy. "I had hoped that you could stay out of trouble for at least a day."

"Actually, this is the first time this week," I point out.

"Don't talk back, Just answer the question!"

Why do teachers do that? They say don't talk back and then they tell me to answer the question! It's a bit hypocritical, isn't it?

"Well sir," I say. "I'm not sure exactly what I've done. You'd have to ask Mrs Collins if you want to know that. Just bare it in mind, though sir, that she might not be the most reliable witness –"

"I'll deal with you later, Swan. Black – my office – now!"

"See you later, Bella!" Jake grins. "Let's see who gets detained the most after school!"

"Black, I'm warning you –"

"Going sir!"

Jake and Mr Johnson disappear through the ominous oak door, leaving me alone with the stranger.

He is tall, but not in the same way Jake is. I guess that he must be about my age – fifteen – though I have never seen him around before. His bronze hair is slightly dishevelled, and I wonder if he made it that way on purpose, or if he naturally has untidy hair. I wouldn't be surprised – some of the guys I know actually straiten their hair in the morning! Even I can't be bothered to do that and I'm a girl!

My eyes take in his facial features, and widen slightly in appreciation, because the boy looks like a male model: bright green eyes; a strait, perfect nose; high cheek bones that give him a sophisticated, angular look – yep, this kid has it all.

He obviously notices my appraisal because he speaks, "Like what you see?"

"S'alright," I say, looking away. "You new?"

"First day. I transferred. It's one hell of a confusing school you've got here, you know."

"Tell me about it," I reply. "Are you here because you are lost, or because you were sent here?"

"Sent," he smirks. "Didn't like the way one of the boys in my class was looking at my sister, and made my displeasure known in the way of rearranging his face."

I whistled. "Good work! I think you just broke my record; it took me at least two days! Is your sister new as well?"

He leans easily against the wall, looking relaxed. "No, actually. Our parents are divorced; I lived with my dad, while she stayed with mom. I got fed up with his moping, and some other things happened, so I decided to come and stay down here with her and the new guy."

"I'm sorry," I say, realizing that this might be a touchy subject. I try to mimic his easy demeanour, but I'm not sure how successful I am. "Should I know your sister?"

"Dunno. Alice Cullen rings any bells?"

Alice Cullen! Shit! Alice Cullen is prissy, perfect, annoying, and most importantly, popular. We don't exactly get on.

It all started with her best friend, Rosalie Hale. Rosalie Hale is one of those people that thinks everybody is her inferior, the sort that sneers down at people in the corridor for no reason and whenever she has to talk to someone she looks at them distastefully, as if someone put a slug under her nose. This sort of behaviour really serves to aggravate me, and well, one time I just got sick of it and told her to piss of and take her aloofness elsewhere.

It's pretty easy to guess that she didn't take particularly well to this, and slapped me. I kicked her, and since then, she and her best friend have had a loathing for me, have hated me with a passion.

Well, I suppose the feeling is mutual.

I stare at the boy with a mixture of horror and amusement.

"And I thought you were alright mate!"

"What?" he asks self consciously.

"Ask your sister about Bella Swan, I assure you, she'll have much to say."

He looks at me, confused. "You don't like each other?"

I snicker, "You could say that."

We stand in silence. Neither of us is sure what to say – should we disassociate ourselves from each other now, or later, when he is told what a total loser I am?

I mean, obviously I'm not really a loser; how could I be? But I'm not part of the 'in' crowd, and two people who are, hate me. Yeah, doesn't really help with social standing. The boy clears his throat and I glance up. He shuffles uncomfortably, trying to make up his mind on something.

I wait.

To my uttermost shame, I find myself beginning to tap my foot. Mrs Collins has corrupted my mind, I am polluted! My peers will put me in quarantine if they find out! Hell, I might have to put myself in quarantine! I can just feel the, 'I'm waiting Cullen' on my lips. Resist the urge, Bella, I tell myself. Resist the urge.

He clears his throat again.

"Is there something you want to say, Cullen?" I ask.

He swallows, then holds out his hand. "Edward," he says. "Call me Edward."

Just then, Jake walks out of the principal's office. He eyes us curiously for a moment, then grins.

"I got a full blown lecture!" he mouths. "Old Mr Johnny is in a bad mood!"

Mr Johnson, who is standing just behind him, looks even more displeased than he was before. There are beads of perspiration on his lined forehead and his small, piggy eyes are overshadowed by a frown. He seriously needs to get some air conditioning in that room of his. It can't be healthy to perspire as much as he does. The schools budget isn't that low is it? They even managed to find the funding to make that pointless student/teacher bonding room that people avoid like the plague. Surely they can spare a bit of it so that pupils being told off don't have to endure being hit with drops of sweat while Mr Johnson is in mid rant, right?

"Swan, get in here now! And I mean now! This instant!"

I gulp.

"What did you say to him?" I mouth back at Jake.

He just shrugs. Thanks so many, traitor. Might as well get this over and done with.

I enter the office.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: Whatever I wrote in the chapter before – if you didn't read it, take my word, there is actually one there.**

**Chapter Two**

"…Spoke to Mrs Collins and she was most displeased! I'm extremely unhappy with you… such potential… all going to waste! Can't believe your behaviour… what will your father think? Don't you think you've put him through enough… such an embarrassment for him! Detention for the twenty third time this year…"

I tune out.

Honestly, it's like he's on a loop. Why is it so difficult to admonish me with words that are different to the ones he used the last twenty three times? Perhaps I should recommend a thesaurus. Or I maybe could write his lectures for him. Hum… I could put in some deliberate mistakes in it and see if he actually read them out.

Do real speech writers do that? It's easy to imagine a bunch of them sitting around a table, leaning over the President's speech, placing bets on how stupid he will be. Come to think of it, that's probably what happened with George Bush – why else would he use the word 'malarians' in a speech? They're not a different race of people! It was quite funny for the rest of us to watch him put his foot in it again through…

Mr Johnson has stopped talking and is glaring at me.

"Swan! Were you listening to a word that I was saying?"

The truthful answer would be no, but saying that right now might be borderline suicidal.

"Of cause I did!" I say with a charming smile. "Every sacred word that comes out of your mouth is memorised meticulously. Your speeches to me are like a bible to my parents."

He glowers down at me. "What a shame that considering you having a religious upbringing, the virtues of Christianity definitely haven't rubbed off on you."

"What makes you think that I had a religious upbringing?" I ask.

"You didn't?" he growls at me.

I treat him to my sweetest smile. "Erm, no."

He raises one bristly eyebrow, indicating that I should carry on talking.

"In fact," I plough on, "my parents are strict atheists. I suppose you could say that I've had the opposite of a religious upbringing. And coupled with the fact that my parents deprived me of the bare necessities of life for most of my childhood, evening instituting a barbaric regime forcing me to go to bed in the early hours of the afternoon, it's no wonder I turned out the way that I did." I pause. "Not saying that the way I turned out is a bad thing," I add as an afterthought.

"So let me get this strait," Mr Johnson spoke in the calm tones that came before the storm. "Your parents are atheists."

"Yes," I nod.

"And atheists don't believe in any religion, do they?" There is a condescending edge to his tone, something that annoys me no end.

"Yes. Sir, if you are uncertain about religious terms, then I'm not sure how qualified you are to continue as head teacher in this school. Ignorance can cause a lot of hurt, you know."

His voice grows louder, ignoring my words. "Therefore you haven't listened to a word that I've said!"

"How did you work that out, sir?" I ask.

"Because atheists have no need for bibles, that's why!" He thumps his fist on the desk to add impact to his point. His water bottle, which had previously been sitting on the rim, its cap off, promptly toppled into his lap. He stares down uncomprehendingly for a moment, before turning a dark puce colour. Then his eyes narrow into slits and his gaze meets mine.

Uh-oh.

"Get. Out. Before I do something I regret." His voice is a snarl.

I could point out that it is not my fault he put his water in a dangerous place, but one look at his face convinces me that this would not be the best idea.

I get out.

As the door slams shut behind me, he yells, "Double detention, Swan. Be there."

"Wouldn't miss it for the world!" I call back.

He doesn't reply.

Cullen was still waiting when I stepped outside. He glances up at me and mutters something about psychopath teacher. You got it there mate. Our school's made up of them. Take Mr Johnson for example – he can give the demon headmaster a run for his money any day.

"Wouldn't go in there any time soon," I advise. "If you must there is a fire extinguisher in the far corner in case he starts to breathe fire."

Edward chuckles, running a hand through his matted hair. "Is that likely?"

I assume a mock serious expression. "Very. Don't worry though – it takes him a little while to work up the energy before he morphs completely into a dragon," I pause. "Not that there's much difference, with looks like his."

He laughs again, then walks over to the door of an empty classroom. I watch, bemused, as he peers inside, glances around behind him and slips in. Am I meant to follow him? No. A few moments later he steps back out, dragging behind him two chairs. He grins wickedly at me.

"I'll wait until he cools off. Care to keep me company?"

I hesitate a moment, but I wasn't _told_ to go straight back to class. And I honestly can't be bothered to listen to Mrs Collins drone on about the deeper meaning of a crap book. Know what I mean? Writers don't always have secret messages hidden in inconsequential paragraphs. Generally they don't have the time or patience to add special morals to each little phrase. However, teachers always seem to insist that we analyse each minuscule word – 'why did the author insert the word 'the' in here?' I don't know… Maybe it was the grammatically correct place to put it? And why is the main characters second cousin once removed a blond? Well, there is the possibility that the writer liked blonds. But no, that's miles too simple.

Anyway, I might as well remain here, since I have no desire to go back. Edward dumps both chairs underneath a display board exhibiting an impressive array of student work, ranging from essays written in neat handwriting with no paragraph breaks, to history posters with pretty pictures and no accurate information. Yep, the student complete are slobs.

I sit down and lean my head against the wall. Not the best idea I ever had. One of the staples holding up a particularly rubbish poem had come lose and when I leant back it dug into my scalp.

I yelp.

"Shit!"

I hear a snicker beside me and turn to glare at Edward. He was lounging next to me, no nasty staples to stab him. I twist and yang the offending article out, causing the haiku it was holding up to flutter to the floor. He picked it up and began to read out loud.

"I do not hate school,  
"Only kidding 'cause it sucks,  
"I rock."

"I thought haikus were meant to have five syllables in the last line," I snicker.

"They are," He begins to laugh. "What a twat. The last line should be 'I'm stupid.'"

"That's got three syllables," I point out. "How about: 'I'm an idiot'. That's five."

Edward takes out a pencil from his pocket and scrawls down the new line, then props the paper up on the rim of the presentation panel.

"That's vandalism!" I accuse. "You been here for what, not even half a day – and you are already defacing school property!"

He stretches lazily and gives me a wicked grin. "You're just jealous."

"Jealous? Jealous of what?" I ask in mock outrage.

"The masterful way I pulled off my crime without being caught!"

"Pure luck," I exclaim, but I can't help adding wryly, "Though with my personal luck out to get me at the moment, Mr Johnson would walk out of that office right at the moment I was performing the act and spontaneously combust out of pure rage."

"I can't quite work out why that is a bad thing." Edward slouches down further in his seat.

"Ah, but you forget that the teaching staff would have me hauled up before the police – my father to be precise – and charge me with murder," I remind him. See, somehow, the teaching staff have failed to be charmed by my scintillating personality and hold with the opinion that I am some kind of evil abomination, one that deserves to be executed through prolonged periods of picking chewing gum of the bottoms of desks during multiple detentions.

"Is spontaneous combustion counted as murder?"

"Would be in my case," I mutter.

He shifts slightly so that he can look at me better. Wow, he seriously needs a new haircut. I don't care whether it is considered cool or not, he looks like a sort of gay hedgehog while it remains the way it is now. While I debate with myself about the best way to point out this fact, he speaks. "You know, you would have thought having a dad as a policeman would mean that you could afford to have a few brushes with the law."

I winced – he'd just touched on a tender subject. "My Dad has made it perfectly clear which side he will be on if I ever end up in court – the prosecuting." As I say it I notice that a note of bitterness has crept into my voice. Edward has obviously picked up on it too, as he shifts slightly uncomfortably in his seat, unsure whether to change the subject or not. He decides to risk it and press on.

"Surely it's not that bad – I mean at home. You like your Dad, right?"

"Yeah," I say sarcastically. "Me 'n' Dad get on just fine."

He looks at me curiously for a moment, then decides to drop it.

"Hey look, maybe I should go in now…" He trails off, and I shrug, suddenly wanting this conversation to be over.

"Yeah," I say, turning around and picking up my chair, before carrying it back into the empty classroom. "Maybe I'll, um, see you around?"

He copies my action and gives me a small smile. "Sure. I'll look forward to it." Then he is gone, vanishing into Mr Johnson's office. I feel kind of sorry for the poor guy; I didn't exactly help his situation by riling up the miserable lump, but I can't be blamed too much – it's part of my nature. I just can't help annoying people with sticks up their asses any more than I can help breathing. Well, maybe that is a bit of an exaggeration. Or not.

To go back to class or not to go back to class, that is the question. An eternity of – or what would seem like one – of listening to Mrs Collins' voice droning on and on and on… God, just the thought of it sends me to sleep. No doubt my nightmares would be filled with multiple Mr Johnsons marching across the town, leaving behind death and detentions in their wake.

Sighing, I begin the trudge back to class.

As I round the corner, silence greets me. You know the kind I mean, the one that virtually screams kid torture and promises difficult times ahead for those fool-hardy people attempting to re-enter the room. Cautiously, I peer through the door's window, and let me tell you, the sight is foreboding: the pupils are bent over their desks, concentration etching new lines on their young faces as they scribble furiously on sheets of lined paper; they all seem to be wearing a look of intense constipation, so I can only assume that its bad. Mrs Collins, the she-demon herself, sits at the front marking some essay or other that she probably forced some poor bugger to do at gun point. She also has a constipated expression, but as far as I can tell it's permanent.

All this points to one conclusion: a test. I don't like test – well, who in their right mind does – so the prospect of voluntarily joining participating in one is… Not good. I'll always remember the time in sixth grade when our teacher at the time made us sit a particularly boring science exam. I tried, honestly I did. Or maybe I didn't, but that's beside the point. Anyway, most of the lesson I was too preoccupied with doodling on the table and stinking broken writing utensils I'd found in an empty locker earlier that day to the wall with some superglue my Dad had left lying around to actually do the test, so when, inevitably, it had to be handed in I'd done just about nothing. Yep, a round fat zilch.

My teacher, being the cruel man he was, sent it home to my Dad, who immediately sat me down in the kitchen and told me to complete it or there would be consequence. Of course, he never really specified what those consequences would be, not even telling me if they would be good or bad, but I have always surmised that it was the later. At the time, I felt pretty righteously pissed off, especially as I had been grounded for three weeks, and, in order to show the extent of my displeasure, I decided to use the test for toilet paper. Literally.

Suffice to say, neither my Dad nor my teacher were very pleased – they made me sit it all over again, and gave me extra one just to make sure the message sank in. Ever since then I have despised test just that bit more than everybody else, and I would be damned if I was going to walk into that classroom and sit another one when I could get away with not doing it.

Time to go hide in the toilets.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: do I really have to write a disclaimer for every chapter? Anyway, just in case I do, I will explain once again that I do not own Twilight. Got it?**

**Chapter Three**

As the end of the day finally arrives I find myself standing in the crowded parking lot, scanning the road for police car. No, I am not on the run from the law. As you may or may not a have already gathered, my father is a policemen and, to my terminal embarrassment, always insists on driving past school before the end of his shift so that he can 'check what trouble you've got yourself into now'.

While this habit remains exceedingly irritating, I have (grudgingly) become accustomed to it and, though I hate to admit it, find it comforting in a weird, twisted sort of way. Briefly, I scan the area for Jake, but my usual source of entertainment seems to have abandoned me and as the minutes tick by, and my eyelids droop lower and lower. My bus always arrives late so I am left standing there as people slowly to trickle away, some walking home on foot while others a picked up by coaches. It is with a start that I realize only a few students remain and still my father has not driven along the road.

I couldn't have missed him – not with the force issued car with its distinctive colouring he uses while on duty. As I wait, worry begins to set in, worming its way inside of me no matter how much I tell myself that he's just late, just stopping shoplifters or whatever else small-town policemen do. My fingernails bite into the flesh of my palm, jolting me back into the present.

Ouch!

I quickly hurry forward as I see that my bus has started to pull away; I had completely missed its arrival, so focused was I on trying to see my Dad. Pushing down my rising fear, I clamber aboard.

My concentrating strays to the windows as I automatically made my way down the aisle towards the back, all the while thinking black thoughts. My Dad never breaks from his routine – in fact, he is the steadiest person I know – and his failure to show up means that something has probably gone wrong. _He's alright, _I tell myself as I slip into an empty seat._ He's alright._

But what happens if he's not?

You know that feeling of inexplicable wrongness that sometimes creeps over you, a kind of premonition of bad things to come? Well I feel that now, and it really sucks.

The space is full of noise and people press in on all sides, but I feel superfluous and alone, not even noticing as Edward Cullen plops down into the seat beside me with a cheerful grin. I vaguely hear him as he says his hello and mutter something incomprehensible in return, gaze fixated on the cars whizzing by outside. Even the weather seemed to be conspiring against me, dark storm clouds broiling on the horizon, promising a lot rain in the near future and fuelling my morose mood.

Thunder rolls in the distance, and someone says, "Uh, hello… Anyone in there?"

Tearing myself away from the scene outside, I look towards Edward, muttering, "Sorry. What was that?"

"I was saying," he said with an air of exaggerated patience, "that the storm cloud over there looks pretty ominous. You seemed completely out of it. Daydreaming about me already?"

Collecting myself, I take a moment to process what he had just said before throwing back a lame retort. "You wish," I deadpan, darting a quick glance out of the window one last time. No police cruiser. No Charlie.

"Not particularly. Penny for your thoughts?"

"Oh, nothing much. Just thinking."

He chuckles slightly. "Really? Dangerous occupation."

"Ha, ha. Very funny. You should know." We lapse back into silence and I do nothing to revive the conversation.

Finally he mutters, "Sorry I said anything. Alice warned me that you were moody, but you seemed alright earlier. Maybe she was right."

"Maybe."

I can feel him looking at me, but don't meet his eyes, opting instead to stare at the floor. The pattern is actually quite interesting: splatters of old food staining the ground at odd intervals; odd bits of paper lying around, torn into varying sizes; and a few clumps of chewing gum mashed in by the heel of some poor sods shoe. When he realized I was not going to speak again, Edward continued. "She also told me to stick away from you. That you wouldn't want me around you."

"Maybe I don't." I instantly regretted saying this, but it was too late to retract the harsh words now.

He gets up, grabbing his bag and swinging it over his shoulder in a familiar movement that I've seen Alice Cullen do many times. "Fine," He practically snarls. "Since I'm obviously unwanted I'll move elsewhere, and stick away from you in the future. My sister is right – you are a bipolar bitch!" With those parting words he begins to stalk away, casting one last scathing look in my direction.

Swallowing my pride I call, "Wait!"

He turns back to me, expression guarded. "What?"

"I'm sorry," I say, cringing as the words pass my lips. I hate apologising. "That was uncalled for and I didn't mean it. I… I don't know what's wrong with me. I was fine earlier, but now…" I trail off.

Edward slumps back down beside me, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like, "Fucking Girls… Must be a different species…"

I wisely decide to ignore it.

"Sorry," I say again, unsure how to continue.

"S'alright I suppose." He gives me a weak smile, obviously still wondering whether I was going to snap at him again. I indicate for him to carry on, giving what I hope is a reassuring nod. He takes the hint and adds, uncertainly, "Are you… you know… PMSing…"

I have to snicker at the awkwardness of this statement, and the sound lightens the atmosphere dramatically. "Er, no. I am not… PMSing." He looks so relieved at these words that I laugh again and after a moment he joins in, evidently a bit confused over what was so amusing, but glad to laugh all the same.

Hesitating once more, he looks at me with at me with a frown. "Is there anything else that's wrong?" He asks finally.

For a moment I consider telling him about Charlie, but it sounds silly when I put it into words. Come on, I mean 'my Dad the policeman didn't drive past school today'? I could see his answer already. There are all kinds of reasons for Dad not showing up: perhaps he got caught up with some of the local miscreants, though this seems unlikely since most of them have become adept at avoiding him; he could have been caught up in traffic, though that seems almost as improbable as the first seeing as we hardly ever have any congestion around here; and maybe he just went by a different route for a change – after all, it's not impossible. But none of these options seem right to me, and a nagging sense of foreboding sends icy chills prickling down my spine despite the heat of the crowded bus.

Edward is waiting, looking at me curiously as all these thoughts cross my mind. "No," I say, eventually. "Nothing is wrong. Nothing."

He still seems sceptical, so I quickly change the subject. Soon we fall back into the easy banter we had while waiting outside the principal's office. My worries forgotten, Edward and I covered a wide variety of subjects, ranging from whether Mr Johnson's red completion was a sign that he was likely to spontaneously combust, to political matters such as which possible presidential candidate was the biggest moron. All too soon I hear the bus driver call out my stop and reluctantly get out, but not before exchanging mobile numbers with Edward.

Feeling light hearted, I head for home, even the rain not dampening my spirits.

My elation lasts until I reach my street. I can sense immediately that something is wrong, can feel it in my bones and know that all is not as it should be. Everything is silent apart from the suddenly muted patter of the rain, the other houses seeming almost watchful I make my way along the pavement. I move slowly, much slower than necessary, scuffing my feet along the ground and dreading, though I do not know why, the inevitable time that I will arrive at my house. Dreading what may be waiting for me inside.

Something creaks to left. I jump and turn to stare in that direction, heart racing.

"Hello?" I call. "Hello? Anybody there?"

Silence greets my words, an oppressive silence that weighs down upon me, smothering, suppressing… _Snap out of it,_ I tell myself.

By now you are probably wondering why I am so worked up. The honest answer? I don't know. Can't tell you. But my instincts are screaming at me that something bad has happened – perhaps it was the unsettling quiet that had settled over the neighbourhood; perhaps it was the unusual lack of any people going about their daily business – I don't know, but whatever it is scares me shitless.

I have arrived at my destination; my house looms above me, the shabby, brown bricks taking on an ominous look, almost seeming to absorb the darkness of the thick, black cloud that bubbles and boils above me. Even the air crackles with electricity, and as I stare up at the peeling paint of our green door I see something else: the door has been unlocked and stands slightly ajar. This should have sent the alarm bells ringing, but I first I just thought that Charlie must have not closed it properly when he came in. But Dad never did anything like that – he was a policeman, and prized himself on his vigilance. One last thing catches my eye.

A smear of brown coats the door handle.

No, it can't be! But it is.

A small whimper escapes my lips as my fingers reach out to touch it before I regain control of them and curl them into a fist. Dried blood. Dried blood coast the copper surface. Bile rises in my throat and I suppress the urge to throw up.

Slowly, as if in a dream, I push the door wide and step through. The hallway is empty, and for I moment I believe that I may have been mistaken and there is really nothing wrong at all.

Then turn the corner into the lounge and see the gun.

It lies in the centre of the room, floating in a puddle of redness that seeps into the carpet. For one bizarre moment all I can think about is the mess that has been made and Charlie's best rug and how annoyed he will be when he comes home and sees it. _I should clear it up,_ I think. _Quickly, before Dad gets back. _It takes me a while to process that Dad has probably already been back. That Dad is probably the reason for the dark read stain on the otherwise pristine floor.

"Dad!" I shout, not caring if someone else might hear me. "Charlie! Where are you? Speak to me damn it! This is not funny! Where are you? Please!" My words echo around the empty house, reverberating of the walls, mocking me as I stand, paralyzed, in panic.

Then I am running. Out of the house, down the street, running, running, running…

Eventually I come to a stop, my breathing ragged and a cramp forming in my stomach. My hand fumbles in my pocket and shakily I draw out my phone, dialling the first number that comes into my head. It rings, once, twice, then he picks it up and I can feel his presence through the phone line, comforting me.

"Edward," I gasp, unable to say anything else. "Edward."

For a moment no one replies, then, "Bella? What's wrong?"


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: I don't own twilight.**

**Chapter Four**

I don't know why Edward was the first person that I called. Perhaps it was just that he was the last person I had spoken to. Perhaps it was one of those magical connections that drew me to him. On second thoughts, forget that last one – never mistake me for a hopeless romantic. And 'magical connections'?

Complete and utter bullshit.

However, though I may not be soft and soppy, at that moment I was pretty shaken up. How do you reckon you would deal if you walked into your house and found the door unlocked with bloodstains everywhere?

I begin to shake in earnest, my whole body quivering from shock and exhaustion. My legs give out and I slump to the pavement, pulling my knees up to my chest and leaning back against the red brick of an alleyways wall. With the phone clutched to my ear, I looked around, taking in my surroundings for the first time: I have run further than I realized, deep into the rougher part of town, and now I find myself surrounded by graffiti and cigarette butts in a dark and shabby backstreet.

In different circumstances, maybe I would be afraid, but at this instant all I can think about is my father – or the lack of him. For the moment there is no room inside me for fear for myself, though that will surely come later when it finally sinks in that I am well and truly lost.

"Charlie," I whisper, and to my shame I can feel a prickling in the corners of my eyes and a salty wetness begins to trickle down my cheeks, merging with the raindrops. It has been a long time since I last cried.

"Actually, it's Edward," Says a sarcastic voice and with a start I remember that I am still holding my mobile. My mouth opens and closes, but no sound comes out. It is as if I am incapable of saying another word and I just take refuge in the fact that I am not alone. Finally Edward speaks again, seeming to finally grasp that something is _very_ wrong. "Bella, um, are you alright?"

Still I sit there, holding the phone, but not making a sound. A hysterical sob escapes my lips, fading away into a whimper. I know, I know – pathetic right – but the shock was really getting to me and I had no idea what I could do.

A touch of urgency enters his velvety tones as he hears the noise, "Bella? Bella! For fuck's sake, speak to me! What's happening?"

"I…" I rasp, then start again. "It's Charlie. He's –" I break off, unsure what say.

"The Chief – I mean your Dad? Bella, you need to tell me what's going on. You're not making any sense!"

"I walked home, after the bus dropped me off and… and… He wasn't there, and I knew something was wrong, then –" My babbling pauses for a moment and I have to choke back another sob. "Then I found the door open… it was horrible Edward! And I went in and saw the blood… there was so much blood… and his gun – just lying there on the floor! I had to get away… Do you understand – I had to! I… I ran away! And… now I don't know where I am and I'm scared…"

Edward doesn't speak for a while, digesting this information. I can his breathing over the phone and the sound gives me comfort, soothing my frayed nerves. Calm settles over me like a blanket and I begin to think more rationally. I stand up, using the wall to support me, and, shaking off a slight feeling of trepidation, stagger out of the alley, onto a wider street. It is mostly empty apart from a couple of youths who, after eyeing me with mixed curiosity and suspicion, round the corner of the block and vanish out of sight. A small breath of relief escapes my lungs as they pass out of view – they are the kind of people that immediately made you think of drugs and violence, things that, being the daughter of a policeman, I have been raised to view with distrust.

"You say you don't know where you are?" Edwards question interrupts my thoughts.

"No," I say, a bit firmer than before. "It's not a nice part of town. That's all that I can tell you."

"I would say that I would come and find you, but if I don't know where to look then that would be pretty pointless. Isn't there anything that might clue you in?"

"Give me a minute."

I glance around again, looking for some kind of marker that could give me an indication of my location.

Nothing.

I turn around and there, camouflaged with rust and nearly obscure by a small mountain of trash, stands an old sign that reads in faded capitals '**SHIT STREET**' – an ironic name, even if I do say so myself. As if to back up the sentiment, a pile of dog turd lies in a stinking pile at its base, contributing to the general atmosphere of decay and discrepancy that hangs over this neighbourhood like a heavy fog. Unbidden, a snigger rises up in me, but before it is fully formed the whole situation comes flooding back and it dies in the back of my throat.

"What was that?" Edward asks.

"Uh, nothing. I found a street sign though."

"Well don't hold back. Where the hell are you? I – _shut up Alice_!" I can hear his sister nattering on in the background and wait until the noise fades away before I answer.

"It says hear… Well, apparently I'm in, uh, 'Shit Street'…"

A guffaw of laughter blasts out of the phone. "Shit Street? You're kidding me, right?" At my silence he hastily apologises. "I'm sorry Bella. Obviously something's going on at the moment… But 'Shit Street'! You gotta admit that it's pretty funny."

His laughter continues and anger rises up in me. I snarl, "I'm serious and the least you can do is take this seriously as well. My Dad is missing! My home has been broken into! There is a big puddle of blood on the carpet for fucks sake!"

His snorts die away.

"Sorry," he repeats soberly. "I'll see if I can find the place on a map. Just stay where you are and I'll pick you up, ok?"

"Sure," I say, and press the disconnect button. I reach into my pocket and pull out the iPod I saved up for last year.

As Green Day blasts away at my ears, doubts begin to corrode my mind. For the first time I remember that I have only recently met Edward and don't actually know that much about him. We seemed to get along alright, but already I was dragging him into a mess that he had absolutely nothing to do with. Briefly, I consider calling him again, telling him that I would make my own way back… Back to where?

Suddenly it strikes me: I can't go home.

I can't face the empty house – I wouldn't feel safe. I wouldn't know what to do with myself.

Another thought hits me. I hadn't even considered that the blood might not actually have been my Dad's. Hope surges up and I pull out my phone for the second time, this time dialling the police. I yank out my headphones just a second before the voice of the tinny operator crackles through the speakers. It puts me on hold for a minute, before a gruff voice answers the line.

"This is the police. What can we help you with?" I don't recognise the person speaking, but it is obvious from their tone that they are bored.

"This is Bella Swan," I say. "My father is Chief Swan –"

He cuts me off, immediately sounding alert. "You're Charlie's daughter?"

"Yes –"

Without letting me finish, he carries on, "Where are you?" My heart sinks and any hope I had drains away. I knew it – something's gone terribly wrong. And my father is caught up in it.

"I'm –" He interrupts me again.

"Stay where you are. Your father didn't arrive at work today. He seemed so sure that he had a lead, but…" the man stopped and seemed to think about what he was saying. "Sorry. Classified information. I can't tell you anything more. Are you at your house?"

"No," I say without inflection.

"There where?"

"I'm not completely sure. Some friends of mine are coming to pick me up in a moment."

"You do that –" I hang up on him.

The phone slips from my grasp and lands with a thud on the floor. I bend down and pick it up, not really caring whether it is broken or not, and shove it back into my pocket.

My contemplations return to my father.

We never got on much, Dad and I. He meant well, I suppose, but he was overbearing, controlling, and he never properly understood me. We never had those father-daughter bonding sessions that some families do. His work meant everything to him and often it took precedence over me.

When I was younger and needed attention it wasn't Charlie that parented me; it was our next door neighbour, Mrs Clearwater. When I came home from school, sick and needing comfort, it was Mrs Clearwater that nursed me back to health. I never knew my mother and in a way, I don't know my father either. But all the same, he is what I have. I can't lose him, even if he is an aggravating, overly critical, bastard of a control-freak father.

The sound of footsteps invades my ears and I glance up. Two figures round the corner into view, one tall and the other almost comically short: Edward and his brat of a sister, Alice.

"Swan," Alice's voice drips with condensation. "You seem to have infected my brother. He is _worried _about you. Is it blackmail or have you genuinely managed to cloud his mind?"

"Alice!" Edward says reproachfully. "She's going through a difficult time at the moment. The least you could do is show some sensitivity."

"She is a bitch!" the midget yells, before turning around to face me. "Stay away from my brother!"

I allow myself to slip back into my normal persona and glower at her. Every single reason for why I hate Alice Cullen flashes before my eye: in first grade when she stole my sticky tape and used it to attach a 'Bella Swan is stupid' poster to the whiteboard; on my first day in high school when she told me that my fashion sense was shit and that my favourite pair of comfy trainers were infecting the corridor with bacteria; every single time she sneered down her nose with that look of supreme superiority – as if I were something disgusting stuck to the bottom of her shoe.

A whole range and brilliant comebacks are within my grasp, but in the heat of the moment all I can think to say is, "Shut up Short ass."

It has the desired effect though: she rocks back on her heels as if struck by a physical blow – when you are only 4 foot 11 height is a touchy subject. We glare at each other, her blue eyes attempting to burn a hole in my skull and I half expected her to spit fire.

Then she exploded.

"See!" She rounds on her brother, using one perfectly manicure finger to poke him in the chest (which, incidentally, was quite a way up for her) and staring up at him with a look of deranged triumph. "See what I mean? She is a nightmare! You wouldn't understand – you haven't had to deal with her for your entire school career! Disrupting the lessons, always trying to sabotage our learning with her stupid comments and her… her…" At this point words seem to fail her and she just stands there, breathing heavily and generally looking out of place with her vibrant designer clothes in the dank street.

Edward stares between us, clearly wondering what is going on. I slump.

"Look, Alice. I know that we have never gotten along, but could you please hear me out just this once." I wait, but she says nothing. Eventually I take this as permission to proceed. "Something has happened to Charlie. He didn't show up at word today and the house has been broken into." I pause again, wondering how much to tell them.

"Go on," Edward urges.

Taking a deep breath, I continue. "There was blood on the floor and… and his gun was there."

Alice looked up at me with shock, finally seeming to understand this was not a time for antagonism. She took a step backwards and seemed to shrink. "Blood? I – I don't know what to say…"

"Have you phoned the police?" Her brother's voice is brisk and business like.

I nod wordlessly.

"And they said?"

"Not much – they just confirmed that Dad was caught up in something bad. Said something about a big lead, though didn't mention the case he was working on. Seemed to think it was classified. But – nothing ever happens around here… Does it?" A slight note of pleading enters my voice, and to my surprise it is Alice that comforts me.

"I'm sure he's alright. The chief is tough."

"Thanks," I say, grateful for the support, even if it is given grudgingly.

"I still don't like you," she adds hastily, just in case I get the wrong impression.

I grin weakly. "Wouldn't have it any other way midget."

"Come on," Edward says. "Let's get back. You should go with us back to our house – yours might not be safe. Do you think the police are looking for you?"

I frown. Were they? "Not yet," I answer, though not completely certain what they were doing. Had I worried them with my panicked phone call? "I was pretty vague, but I did say that some friends of mine were coming to pick me up and that I would phone them again after that happened. Do you think they will want to talk to me?" I sincerely hoped not – I had no idea what I would say to them. "What happens if he – Dad – is dead? Where will I live?" The fear that had been partially buried rises up again and threatens to engulf.

No one answers me. Instead we splash through the rain back to the Cullen residence.


End file.
